What It Means To Be Human

The answer? Wounded. Hurt. Broken in many places. Rejected by many faces. The what was, the what is, and the what could be's are all dwarfed by what really is. Each day scars heal only to be torn open, smiles after a winter of sorrow are erased in the twitch of an eyelash, and for every beautiful sonnet and lavish promise come fifty grief stricken wails and the epic failures and blunders of unfulfiled oratory.

For the last two days, this is all I have seen. For the last two days I have seen how broken man is, not just the men and women we hear in newspaper stories or on the evening news and think "man, I'm glad I'm not one of them", I mean the ones that live among us, the men and women who live with, as Henri Nouwen would call it; wounds which are not meant to heal, scars that never fade, and hearts whose pulse will never be the same.

Who are these people? They are M. and A. who both have been through relationships which ended in their respective spouses cheating on them, leaving them with children and a gap. So, M. and R. find each other, both having previous religious history which was so brutally torn apart by such suffering. So, they move in together, they have sex, they live on until they relize that their relationship with Christ is more important than themselves. So, they sleep in seperate rooms, they abstain from even the slghtest physical, intimate contact, having the one least exhausted from the daily trials and labors sleep on the living room couch while the other takes the bed. And so they come to the church, to get married and embrace Christ in their relationship. He works in worship ministries, she is active in Bible studies. And the church said no, no, no you can't be married in our sanctuary because you have gone against the bidding of God and have not reflected Christ. And how do I fit in? I was at their counseling session, and I saw the hurt, the regret, a feeling of inadequacy among men. Sure, in fact, indeed it was wrong what they did, very wrong, especially to set such a message to their children and to others as they reflect Christ. But yet, to witness their struggle over the last 24 hours as the elders and pastors rediscussed their wedding at this morning's elders meeting, it hurt.

I was asked during that meeting what I thought, what I felt God called us to do. Me. Cruddy, inadequate, 21-year old me. They're getting married in the sanctuary. Praise God.

Who are these people? This is Art. Art is a war veterin, a man who has gone to this church for many years. He is quiet, a short man with graying hair and a gentle demenor. A man who comes in and comes out without a peep. A gentleman.

A man who was opened up yesterday, only to find that his body was fulled of cancer. It was eatting him alive. A man without a body of his own. So he was sown shut and made comfortable. That's it. Pastor Roy went to visit him, here is what he found; a white room devoid of flowers or cards, mementos of concern or tokens of charity. There was no one in the hard hospital seats, nor was there any noise of relatives conversing softly. There was Art, just Art, his two travel bags sitting along side his bed. He had no one except his son, a son who flew in from LA only to leave the next day, to leave Hilton Head and to leave his father; alone. This was a man who couldn't speak, why speak, what's the point when you're alone. To hear such a man of God for so many years return to the office only to say "I hate my job" is enough to wound even the most hardened and unbreakable of hearts. What do you say to such a wounded, lonely soul? How can you show enough love and compassion to erase such lonesomeness?

Who are these people? This is the runner. A good runner, a very good runner. A state champion runner. He came in with his couch, I saw him as I went for lunch and go off to run an errand. I came back and heard it all. This runner was the son of a family trying to make ends meet, a family who has moved 7 times the last two years in order to stay afloat, living on the most meager of means. This is a runner, a runner who has lived out of a suitcase for months. A runner who has a scholorship to run at a college. He also has a girlfriend, a girlfriend who he adores, to the point where he has lied to his family. This has strained his relationship with his dad, this has forced his father to go overboard and become overly protective. This led to the runner punching his hand into the wall in an argument, breaking his hand. This led to the father locking his son out of the hour today, refusing to let him stay any longer. This is a wounded family. A very wounded family.

And this only scratches the surfice. Single moms and dads trying to make ends meet both physically, financially and spiritually with their children. Elderly men and women fading into oblivion as their memory, and those who remember them, slowly shrink away into nothing. Children who have been hurt so deeply by their loved ones, so much so that the wounds dig deep, continually clawing into them like the hawk tearing out daily the liver of Prometheus. The wounds never heal, ever.

And so I have finally learned to pray. For the first time. In the last 30 hours I have prayed more than I have the entire month combined. I have mourned. I have grieved. I have become wounded in such a strange way for people I know so little about, and it hurts.

I care so little for me, I'm very sick of me. I am infinately blessed to know of those who love me so deeply (you may even be loving enough to still be reading this) but please, please, please, love these people more. Today I prayed, and prayed, and prayed for countless wounded brothers and sisters and as I opened my William Barclay I read this, and if you read nothing else here PLEASE READ THIS;

Into every human heart, there are bound to be doubts. It is natural for people with any sensitivity of mind or heart to wonder at times if they really are Christians. John's test is quite simple and far-reaching. IT IS LOVE. If we feel love for our neighbors welling within our hearts, we can be sure that the heart of Christ is in us. John would have said that a so-called heretic whose heart was overflowing with love and whose life had an attractive quality in the service of others was far nearer Christ than someone who was impeccibly orthodox, yet cold and remote from the needs of others. (William BarclayI John 3:19-24)

It was then I wrote someone's name, a name I have been praying for a while now. How great a God who has taken wounded, broken, and morbidably stupid me, with a rebelous heart and a heretic's mind, and has allowed me to love, even if it be ever so slightly. How great then, is the love of our Father that we should so be called Children of God, for That is what we are! (I John 3:1) Moreover, His grace reaches beyond me, to M. and A. and thei wedding, to Art in his hospital bed, to the runner and his broken home. To that name, the name that has been on my mind and heart for such a while.

My brothers and sisters, my friends, please do not be as the average Christian, as Chambers writes, who is "...the most piercingly critical individual known." Love, I beg of you, love. Aren't we all wounded, aren't we all fallen and depraved, rotten to our bowels, cracked at the corners of our lips where our dry and dusty throats can only half whisper a curse wrapped in a hallelujah?

And pray, regardless, pray. For the first time in my life I have fervently learned to do so and now I regret myself not understanding such earlier. I have so much more to say, so little time to say. You are all my friends. You are all my family. Take care of each other. love to you all

-B